


Run Dry

by Rantaboutbees



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hangover, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rantaboutbees/pseuds/Rantaboutbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak. The ringing grew louder and he wanted to stop and put his hands over his ears and scream. But he couldn’t emit a single sound. He couldn’t move. Pete was right there and he loved him but he couldn’t tell him because his own brain wouldn’t allow it.</p><p>---</p><p>An unexpectedly angsty fic where Patrick has to deal with what may have happened last night, and how he feels about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hangovers and Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out to be way more angsty and unrequited-love-y than I thought it would. Sequel to a light-hearted and fluffy fic where Patrick is really drunk and flirty with a (mostly) sober Pete.

Patrick hated the sound of vomit.

  
Unfortunately, he was hearing it a lot right now.

  
He also hated the burning feeling that stuck in his throat whenever he did vomit.

  
That too, however, was something he was experiencing momentarily.

  
As the sound subsided, Patrick stood up unsteadily, clasping a hand to his throbbing head. He hated that headache, too. He stared at his weary reflection in the mirror. He didn’t really like his face right now, either. His eyes were red, hair messy, face pale. As he frowned at himself, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink, he tried to remember what exactly had happened last night. For some reason, all he could recall was Pete Wentz’s face. There was a lot of Pete Wentz last night, apparently. Patrick tried to figure out just what that meant. Then, a thought crept through his exhausted brain. Did they, maybe…?

  
No. No way. He couldn’t have been that drunk. And Pete would have had to have been drunk too, right? Like, really drunk.

  
Oh god.

  
Patrick considered the possibility of what could’ve gone down last night, then promptly vomited into the sink.

  
He really hated that feeling.

 

\---

Patrick trudged into the living room of the apartment, sitting down heavily on the couch. He paused, sitting up and looking around. Something happened here. He put a hand to his forehead, trying desperately to think of what that something was. He looked to the doorway, then remembered… Something.

  
Pete Wentz.

  
Pete Wentz was standing in that doorway last night, looking at him, smiling.

  
This realization brought on another, more alarming memory.

  
Pete Wentz was also sitting on this couch last night, right next to him. He was close. Really close. Why was he so close? Why was Pete Wentz sitting that close to him? Sure they were really close friends, but… That close? What was he doing? What could they possibly be doing that warranted the two of them sitting that close together on the couch?

  
Oh, god.

  
Patrick wasn’t so sure he wanted to be sitting on this couch right now.

  
He stood up slowly, now feeling sick for more than one reason. He stepped slowly into the kitchen, then froze. Right there, standing at the counter over a glass of water, was the last person he wanted to see right now.

  
Pete Wentz.

  
Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been Andy? Andy didn’t drink, he could’ve told him what exactly had happened. That way, Patrick could’ve had a bit more preparation for coming across Pete Wentz.  
He considered sneaking away before he was seen, but it was too late. The light haired man turned, smiling tiredly at him.

  
“Good morning, Trick.”

  
“Uhm, hi Pete Wentz,” Patrick stammered, lifting a hand in an awkward wave.

  
“Hi, Patrick Stump…?” The bassist replying, giving him a look. He turned and opened a cabinet, taking out a glass and filling it with water, offering it to Patrick. “Here you go.”

  
“Th… Thanks, Pete. Pete Wentz. Thanks. Yep.” Patrick took the glass, raising it nervously to his lips. It would be very nice to disappear right now.

  
“You’re welcome, Patrick Stump,” The taller man said, smirking.

  
That smirk.

  
Patrick had seen that smirk last night.

  
He locked his eyes on the bassist’s mouth, trying to picture that smirk and remember the situation in which it had appeared.

  
Patrick was sitting on the couch.

  
Pete Wentz was across the room, looking at him. Smirking.

  
Pete Wentz looked amused, happy, pleased. Any word you could think of to convey the fact that Pete Wentz was enjoying himself last night.

  
But what exactly did that mean?

  
It could mean a number of things.

  
Patrick wanted to spend more time and consider the possibilities of last night’s events, but he was distracted by the realization that Pete Wentz was waving at him.

  
“You okay?” The taller man asked, bending down slightly to look him straight in the eye.

  
Slightly dazed, Patrick looked back at him. “What? Oh, yes, Pete Wentz. I’m fine.”

  
“Oookay then.” Pete Wentz shook his head lightly, then walked past the singer into the living room, sipping his water.

  
Patrick stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at his own glass.

  
Maybe he should stop calling Pete Wentz by his full name. They were close friends, after all.

 

\---

Patrick was sitting on the chair farthest from the couch.

  
_Pete_ was sitting on the couch.

  
They weren’t looking at or talking to one another, and for that, Patrick was grateful.

  
Then they both turned to the sound of footsteps at the doorway. Andy appeared in the room, smiling at the two sitting awkwardly across from another.

  
“Well, hello, lovebirds,” The drummer said cheerfully, nodding to each of them as he crossed over to the kitchen.

  
Patrick watched him intently, feeling terror creep through his body. Lovebirds. Something had definitely happened last night. Suddenly, the singer became certain that he had kissed Pete Wentz. Pete. He looked over at the bassist, who was sitting with his legs crossed, hands around his glass. Pete was clicking his tongue softly, looking up to the ceiling. He didn’t seem too fazed by Andy’s comment. Patrick stared at Pete’s lips, trying to remember kissing them. He was sure it had happened, but he couldn’t recall the actual event. Patrick felt ready to pass out. He was completely and utterly convinced that he had kissed his best friend. On the mouth. When he was drunk. Who cared about details? It had to have happened. Why else would Andy have said that?

  
Patrick got up slowly, placing his glass down and heading over to the kitchen. He paused at the doorway, watching Andy pour himself a bowl of cereal. He waited there a moment, planning his words carefully.

  
_So… I can’t seem to remember exactly what happened last night. I’ve got to just ask you this, because it’s killing me to not know for sure. Did Pete and I kiss?_

  
“W… Where’s Joe?”

  
_Nice question. Really going to clear things up for you, Patrick._

  
“In the shower.”

  
“Ah.” Patrick nodded a little too heavily, drawing in air slowly between his teeth. He rocked on his heels slightly, looking around. He had never really noticed how cluttered this kitchen was. He might have to clean it sometime. That would be good. How long has that stain been on the counter? He’d have to clean that too. What do you clean counters with? Windex? That was made for windows, but it might work for counters too. How much cereal was left? They may have to get more soon. Maybe run to the store today.

  
“Is there something you wanted?”

  
Andy’s question jerked Patrick out of his important kitchen-cleaning thoughts.

  
“Oh… Uh, no. Just… Checking in,” Patrick replied, smiling.

  
Andy nodded and turned to the fridge. The singer watched him take out something to drink and pour it into a cup. Before he could get too deep into how fascinating refrigerators are, Patrick turned back into the living room and sat back down on the chair.

  
No progress so far. He could try again later.


	2. Step Four - Drink A Little More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, the chapter title is a Soul Punk reference. Like the name of this fic. So, if you're confused by that, don't worry. It's not too important.

Patrick lay wide awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of any more details as to what happened last night. All he had gathered so far was that he and Pete were very very close, and most definitely kissed. But when?

He turned onto his side, sighing. Suddenly, a thought burst into his head. 

Pete Wentz was in this room.

Fuck.

The realization that his best friend was in his bedroom while he was blackout drunk was not a comforting one.

Suddenly Patrick didn’t want to remember anything anymore. He put his hands to his head and tried to think of something else, but he couldn’t stop imagining the details of what almost definitely occurred while he was intoxicated. As he tried to shake the horrifying images out of his mind, another repulsive thought crept in.

Patrick liked imagining that.

What the fuck? No he didn’t. No. He didn’t.

The singer jumped out of his bed, staring at it with terror. Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts that he shouldn’t be thinking. That he’s  _ not _ thinking. No.

He paced back and forth through the dark room, gnawing nervously at his knuckles and looking out the window to find some sort of a distraction. Nothing was happening outside, nothing to think about. The stillness seemed to be mocking him. He opened his door slowly, glancing fearfully around before stepping silently in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t going to think about this. This wasn’t something he could even begin to consider. Pete was his  _ friend _ and that was  _ it _ and there was nothing more to it. Patrick reached the kitchen and opened the cabinet where he kept the alcohol. He didn’t even want to think about the fact that alcohol was the reason he was in this mess in the first place. Whatever can get him to stop thinking these terrible thoughts, he’s game for. He pulled out vodka and a shot glass and watched with exhausted eyes as the drink poured into the cup. Patrick sighed heavily and raised the glass to his lips, still trying desperately to block out all his thoughts.

“Uh… Patrick?”

Fuck.

He lowered the still-full shot glass and turned. Of course,  _ of fucking course _ , it was Pete Wentz standing there.

“Uh… Hi, Pete.”

“What’cha doing, Patrick?” Pete asked slowly, glancing between Patrick’s eyes and the shot glass. “If you’re going to drink again, you shouldn’t do it alone, buddy.”

Patrick opened his mouth, then closed it. It was dark, but he could still make out some details of Pete’s face. His bleached hair, his thick, slightly uneven eyebrows, his thin nose, his brown eyes, his stubble around his jawline, and his lips. God, his lips. They must have felt so good on Patrick’s, it’s such a shame he can’t remember it. What the fuck. He was thinking about kissing his best friend on the mouth, and how good it must have felt,  _ while his best friend was standing right in front of him. _

“Oh my god,” Patrick mumbled quietly, looking down. This was bad. This was so bad.

“What?”

“Uh… I have to go.” Patrick stepped forward, trying to shoulder past Pete so he could get some time alone to swallow the situation. Unfortunately, however, Pete grabbed his arm and kept him in place.

“Patrick, what is happening? Are you okay?” The bassist put a hand on each of Patrick’s shoulders and looked straight into his eyes.

The singer glanced away. How the hell had he never noticed how pretty Pete’s eyes were? Not what he should be thinking right now.

“Yes, Pete, I’m fine. I just need to…” He tried to turn away, but Pete pulled him back.

“Clearly you’re not fine, Trick. There’s something bothering you, and I want you to know that you can tell me.” Pete’s voice was laced with concern.

Patrick scoffed softly. “Oh, trust me. You’re the last person I can tell this to.”

The bassist loosened his grip on Patrick. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded hurt, and Patrick immediately felt terrible.

“Nothing, I… I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk right now.” The singer stepped back out of Pete’s grasp, who didn’t try to grab him back again.

“Trick, come on…” Pete said quietly. “Is… Is this about last night?”

Patrick froze, feeling his heart stop. “No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Because… You don’t need to worry. Nothing happened.”

Patrick felt himself become very still. “Oh.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” The singer stepped quietly past Pete, who moved aside, head down.

Patrick walked slowly to his room, shutting the door behind him and laying down on his bed. He stared at his ceiling, eyes wide open.

Nothing happened. Nothing. They didn’t even kiss.

This should be a relief. Patrick didn’t make out with or  _ do  _ his best friend! All is right in the world! Good, right?

So why was he crying?


	3. Run

Patrick rolled slowly out of his bed and stood on the floor, eyes down. He didn’t forget what had happened last night. It was the first thing he thought of when he woke up this morning.

He did not want to see Pete today.

Patrick opened his door carefully, trying to be silent. He crept to the apartment’s front door and put on his shoes, holding his breath. After glancing around for a bit, he grabbed the keys and slid out the door, locking it behind him.

Then he ran.

He ran down down the steps and out the apartment building, sprinting down the sidewalk. He ran everywhere, not stopping for anyone or anything. His shoes slapped against the pavement as he raced through the city, feeling like he could start crying at any moment. He didn’t stop running for a few minutes, when he reached the park and stopped to catch his breath. He put his hands over his head and looked around, feeling ready to pass out. Or vomit. Or both. Patrick sat down on a bench and tried to collect himself. He wanted to pull his fedora over his face in the hopes that nobody would recognize him, but he realized he left it at the apartment. Suddenly he felt very exposed. There he was, alone in the middle of a park, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt. And shoes that weren’t meant for running. Patrick put his face in his hands and breathed in deeply, attempting to organize all the thoughts racing through his mind.

_ Okay. So. First order of business. How do you feel about Pete Wentz, Patrick? _

_ I don’t fucking know. _

_ I think you do. _

_ I… I don’t love him. _

_ I think you do. _

_ But he’s my friend! That’s not supposed to happen! _

_ Too fucking bad, Patrick. It’s too late for that. _

_ Well, what am I supposed to do about it? _

_ I think you know that. _

_ But… What if he doesn’t like me back? _

_ Pete likes you, you idiot. _

_ No, he might think it’s weird. Sure, he jokes about it all the time, but if I actually tell him…? He could be really weirded out by it. _

_ I think he’d understand. He’s your best friend, after all. _

_ Yeah, and that’s why this can’t happen! _

_ And why exactly not? _

_ Because… We’re friends! _

_ If that’s all you’ve got, you must know that your argument isn’t very good. _

_ What? _

_ Just tell him! What else would you do, just wait it out and hope it goes away? _

_ Uh… _

_ Do you honestly think this will go away? You love him, Patrick. This isn’t a recent feeling. You’ve loved him for a long time, you’re just really good at repressing things. _

_ Fuck. Fuck, you’re right. But how the hell am I supposed to tell him? _

_ You’ll find a way. Love always finds a way. _

_ Jesus Christ. _

Patrick lifted his head out his hands and looked around again, blinking at the light. He noticed a couple of teenagers talking closely to each other and glancing over at him. He got up and walked away, really not wanting to meet a fan right now. Any other time and he’d love it, but not today. Now was  _ not _ a good time.

“Patrick? Patrick Stump?” A voice called from the direction of the teens.

Shit.

Feeling like crap, Patrick picked up his pace until he was running again.


	4. I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears And None On My Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how the story ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to continue this, unless there's a really high demand for some reason. I wanted to finish this up and move on to other, bigger projects. Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Patrick reached the door to the apartment. He took a deep breath, turning the knob and stepping inside. He took off his shoes and went into his room, breathing a sigh of relief as he found his fedora by his bed and put it on. He went out of his bedroom and headed to the living room, stopping just outside the doorway. He braced himself for the conversation that would inevitably come, pushing his fedora down slightly over his face and stepping in.

To his surprise, Pete was not there.

Instead, there was Joe and Andy, sitting on the couch. They both turned as Patrick entered, Andy smiling warmly.

“Where were you?” The drummer asked.

Patrick sighed. “Out. When did you notice I was gone?”

“Pete woke us up around 7,” Joe responded, his voice serious. “He said you weren’t in your room and he couldn’t find you, so we helped him look around the apartment. When we decided you weren’t here, Pete left to find you.”

“He… Left?” Patrick asked, startled.

“He seemed really concerned,” Andy said. “He kept saying he shouldn’t have left you, that he knew something was up and he should have stayed in your room or something. We told him you were probably just taking a walk, but he was really worried about you.”

Joe nodded. “Andy and I said we would stay here in case you came back, which you did. We should probably call Pete now and say you’re okay.”

“Pete was… Really worried, Patrick. He seemed to think something really bad had happened to you.” Andy was looking at Patrick, eyes glittering with concern. “Did anything happen with you two?”

Patrick met his gaze, inhaling deeply. “Uh…”

“Hi, Pete!” Joe’s voice interrupted the singer’s scramble to find an excuse. He was holding his phone to his ear, looking at Patrick. “Yeah, he came back. He’s right here. Yeah. What? No. He’s fine. Why do you-- What? Yeah, come back. Do you want to talk to him? Oh-- Okay. Yeah. Bye.” Joe sighed, putting the phone down. Silence hung in the air as the three waited, Patrick looking at the floor.

Things seemed to be going very well right now.

Pete was somewhere in the city, worried out of his mind trying to find Patrick. Joe and Andy now know that something is happening, but god knows Patrick can’t tell them, so they’re just left to assume the worst. Now they’re just standing around silently in the living room waiting for Pete to come back so the situation can get even more complicated.

Also Patrick loves Pete.

Or at least that’s what it seems right now.

Suddenly, a heavy knock at the door broke the torturous silence. Joe and Andy looked at Patrick expectantly. The singer turned and walked to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open.

“Hi Pe--”

Patrick was interrupted by his friend flinging himself onto him, arms wrapping around his neck in a tight, desperate hug.

“Oh god oh god oh god you’re okay I’m so sorry I wasn’t thinking I knew something was wrong and I shouldn’t have left you alone I’m so sorry oh god you’re okay are you okay? Are you okay?” Pete’s panicked words raced out of his mouth as he clung to the shorter man.

“I’m fine, Pete.” Patrick wrapped his arms around Pete’s torso, resting his chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Pete pulled away to look at Patrick, face covered in tears. “No no no, Patrick I’m sorry, I can’t believe I left you alone when I knew something was wrong. Oh god, how could I have done that? How could I have done that, I’m sorry.” The bassist melted back into the singer’s arms, sobbing into his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Oh, you’re okay.”

“Pete, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry.” Patrick held his friend close, feeling tears beginning to form in his eyes as well. It was his fault that Pete was this upset.

“Yes I do have to worry!” Pete pulled back again to look into Patrick’s eyes, voice quivering. “That’s my job, you idiot. I worry about you all the time, just like you’re supposed to worry about me. Jesus, you scared me so much.”

“I’m sorry.” The shorter man’s voice was a soft whisper as he tried to hold back tears.

Pete shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m sorry.”

They pulled each other in again. Patrick inhaled softly before murmuring, “We need to talk.”

He felt Pete nod.

They let go of each other and walked to Patrick’s bedroom, closing the door behind them. Patrick sat on the edge of his bed and Pete sat next to him. They stayed silent for a while, staring at the floor, the only sound being Pete’s shaky breaths.

After what felt like years, the older man broke the silence.

“What happened last night?”

Patrick turned to look at him. Pete kept his eyes on the floor.

The singer opened his mouth, glancing down. “I…” He paused for a moment, then continued slowly. “...I don’t know. I was… Really upset for some reason. I can’t even remember. I just wanted to stop thinking, I guess.”

“Upset at me?” Pete turned to look at Patrick, who looked away. “Patrick, I… I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about that night right after it happened. Of course I didn’t even realize that you probably didn’t remember it at all. Yeah, until the night after, when I walk in on what I thought was some sort of suicide attempt.” He gave a little huff after this last statement.

“S-- Suicide attempt? Pete…” Patrick turned to Pete, who didn’t look away. They held their gazes, Pete’s eyes glistening with tears that were ready to fall any moment. “I just didn’t want to think…” The younger man whispered, voice laced with remorse. “...About how I felt. About… You.”

“Why?”

Patrick barely heard Pete’s soft question. He became aware of a ringing sound in his ears.

“Because… I…” He wanted to say it. He wanted to tell him. Tell him he loved him, tell him he had to be with him, to feel his lips on his own, to hold him close, to love him. He loved him and he had to love him and he had to tell him.

But he didn’t.

The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak. The ringing grew louder and he wanted to stop and put his hands over his ears and scream. But he couldn’t emit a single sound. He couldn’t move. Pete was right there and he loved him but he couldn’t tell him because his own brain wouldn’t allow it.

So Pete did the moving. Pete did enough speaking for the both of them without saying a single word. He moved his hips closer to Patrick’s until they were almost touching. He lifted Patrick’s chin and locked eyes with him. He slid a hand along Patrick’s side, up to his shoulder, around his neck. He shifted to where their legs were pressed together. He leaned forward and pulled Patrick in by his arm, hands wrapped tightly around his torso. He nudged his chin to Patrick’s mouth, lips hovering over lips.

And then he waited.

Every fibre of Patrick’s being was screaming to let go. Just lean forward. Take the bait. Kiss the man who he’d been desperate to kiss for ten years. The man who was giving him permission to love him. Patrick could love him now. All he had to do was lean forward. And kiss him.

But he didn’t.

The ringing in his head was deafening.

He lowered his gaze.

He closed his mouth.

He felt Pete’s grip around him loosen. Arms dropped. Lips retreated. The warmth against his body disappeared.

Pete was by the door now.

Patrick was alone on the bed.

Pete was out the door now.

Patrick was alone in the room.

The incessant ringing wouldn’t stop. It grew so loud that he couldn’t hear Pete’s sobs from two rooms over.

He couldn’t hear his own sobs.


End file.
